The Admirer
by terrified
Summary: Admiration is always charming. When a strange, dangerous admirer goes beyond charm, Sherlock's private world is interrupted. And so is Molly's.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock looked at his reflection in the mirror and inhaled slowly. There was nothing he loathed more than having to do these 'public duties', as Mycroft called them. It was made worse when formal dress was involved.

"Useless, fiddly thing, this…" muttered Sherlock as he awkwardly adjusted his bowtie.

"Let me help," Mrs Hudson said cheerfully, straightening the bowtie nicely for Sherlock.

"Looking sharp, Sherlock," said John, amused at Sherlock's clear discomfort.

"I _am_ sharp," snapped Sherlock, "unlike the rest of you."

"You're welcome," John replied, just short of rolling his eyes at Sherlock's little tantrum.

In the taxi, Sherlock, as usual, sat with his back ramrod straight. His jaw was clenched tightly. His clear eyes stared right at the road ahead. John cleared his throat and glanced over at this friend of his.

"Don't. Speak. Please. John." the words came out almost robotically.

John was interrupted before he could even begin speaking. Of course Sherlock knew he would be about to speak. John laughed, resigned.

"Fine. But I _will_ say one thing…"

Sherlock turned condescendingly towards John, impatience etched in his eyebrows.

"Behave." John said, glaring hard at Sherlock's stoic face. "You owe it to Mycroft to be there and to _behave_ tonight."

"I don't owe Mycroft anything." Sherlock muttered between clenched teeth. He turned his head away from John to stare out of the window.

"Yes, you do." John said, matter-of-factly. "He is the reason you can be back here, living in Baker Street, with everything back to normal as though nothing had happened.*"

_* This reference is based on the "The Adventures of the Empty House", where it is revealed that only Mycroft knew of Sherlock's survival and helped keep everything in order and under wraps as Sherlock travelled around, in disguise._

Sherlock stayed silent. He refused to acknowledge anything John had said. But he had no grounds to refute it either.

"Just…behave. All right?" said John with a sigh.

The taxi ride was over before they knew it and the two gentlemen stepped out of the taxi onto the large steps of the impressive BritishMuseum. Sherlock and John were ushered into the main atrium which had been beautifully decorated for the gala they were about to attend.

"Ah, brother." Mycroft said, with a broad smile. He extended his hand towards Sherlock who merely stared in return. John cleared his throat and nudged Sherlock in the elbow. With great restraint, Sherlock obediently took his brother's hand.

"You know I don't enjoy these things, _brother_," Sherlock whispered fiercely to Mycroft.

"I know," Mycroft replied, "But this occasion calls for your presence for…how shall I put it? For the sake of good public relations."

"I would rather you kept me _out _of your public relations. As it stands, our own relations are more than I can endure." Sherlock said coldly.

Mycroft laughed and shook his head.

"My dear brother, I will never understand you. But tonight," said Mycroft, his voice lowered with no trace of a smile anymore, "You are an important man. And this…importance you carry is important to _my_ work. So if you would be so kind as to do this _one_ thing for me, considering everything else that has exchanged between us…"

John stood around awkwardly as the brothers faced each other in their quiet little battle. Both pierced the other with cold, hard stares, neither wishing to back down.

Sherlock _did_ owe it to Mycroft. It was the single most difficult thing to accept.

"All right, Mycroft." Sherlock said, "Tonight, I am your puppet." Sarcasm dripped with every word.

"I trust you will be on your best behaviour then." Mycroft replied, his politically correct smile returning to his face. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have people to greet."

Sherlock watched his brother stride gallantly off to meet with some politicians who had just arrived. Slowly but surely, the gala crowd increased in number. There were men in suits, accompanied by their wives decked in glittery gowns with hair coiffed so high they could knock the chandeliers off the ceiling.

The occasion was to celebrate the launch of a collection of rare documents and paraphernalia that chronicled the history of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. A particularly powerful family in Britain had, through all the right channels and connections, managed to secure a year-long exhibition with the BritishMuseum, showcasing the rich history of the famous hospital.

Mycroft's presence at the gala was but a natural affair. After all, it was his job to remain on good terms with all sorts of powerful families and people. A minor role for the sake of Britain's administration, as Mycroft would put it.

This was to be a huge event and many guests from all related circles were going to be present. Among the guests that arrived, John recognised a few old faces from when he was studying medicine. Sherlock merely stood beside John, silent, unmoving and counting down to when the gala would be over.

"You two look nice." A familiar and cheerful voice chimed.

"Molly!" exclaimed John, giving her a hug and kissing her on the cheek. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Well, " Molly said, with a bright smile, "I do work for the hospital, you know."

"Of course, you do. How silly of me." John said, laughing. "You look lovely!"

"Thanks…" Molly replied, smiling shyly. Molly did look lovely, with her beautiful hair curled in gentle waves and left to cascade on one side. Her dress was simple, black with white accents that followed her own silhouette nicely. Everything was kept to a minimal. But it was pretty, and simply, _Molly_.

"Hello, Sherlock." Molly said, glancing at him carefully.

"Molly," he replied, not even bothering to look at her.

"Champagne?" asked a waiter, suddenly. John and Molly eagerly took a glass each. The waiter hovered awkwardly in front of Sherlock, unsure of what to do, eventually slipping away to serve other guests.

The evening went on without a hitch. Delicate little canapés were served along with endless flutes of champagne on silver trays that floated between guests. Many speeches were made, generous applause was given and a single, silver ribbon was cut. The guests were mingling again and more drinks circulated among the crowd. Molly stood with a group of colleagues and was chatting rather comfortably with them. John had left Sherlock on a few occasions to say hello to a few of those familiar faces. But Sherlock stayed in his corner. He barely spoke, and merely smirked at the few unfortunate souls who had braved a 'hello'. Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was only 9pm. He exhaled slowly, jaw clenched. This was more than he could bear.

"Just a little while more, you're doing fine." John said, returning to check on Sherlock.

Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes and just kept on breathing steadily.

"Why _did_ Mycroft want you here tonight, specifically?" asked John, reaching for a tiny chocolate tart offered to him from a tray of pastries. They were serving dessert now.

"Public relations. Don't you remember?" answered Sherlock.

"I _do _remember." John answered, "Which is exactly why I'm asking. Why on _earth_ would Mycroft want you here tonight?"

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh and turned to face John.

"Well, you'll find out right…about…"

"There he is, Sherlock Holmes!" came Mycroft's jovial voice.

"…now." Sherlock said, turning from John to face his brother.

Mycroft appeared before his stone-faced brother. Accompanying Mycroft was an astoundingly beautiful young woman. Her hair was the colour of dark chocolate and swept back in a low chignon. She was tall, and was taller still because of her high heels. Her slim frame was wrapped in navy blue Shantung silk, perfectly tailored. From her ears dangled two delicate teardrops of emerald.

"Mr Holmes." she said, a slow smile appearing on her face, "This is a pleasure."

John was just about to subtly but firmly remind Sherlock of his manners when Sherlock extended his hand to the young woman.

"Ms Lancaster. Good evening." Sherlock greeted. He even managed a small smile. "The pleasure is mine."

John watched, amazed, as Sherlock took her hand and shook it politely. There was no trace of a smirk, no overt disdain, no condescension registering anywhere on Sherlock's face. John could feel his mind being blown just ever so slightly at this change of character.. It seemed Mycroft felt the same way. Armed with all sorts of defenses at the tip of his tongue to salvage what rudeness might slip from his brother's own, Mycroft was stunned to silence.

"I doubt I would need to introduce myself," she said, her eyes sparkling, outshining the emeralds on her ears. "Certainly not to someone so great as yourself, Mr Holmes."

"Ms Lancaster, you are very kind." Sherlock continued, his smile firmly in place.

"Ms Lancaster is a fervent admirer of your work, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke, at last.

Sherlock did a little bow and his charming smile that so rarely appeared, still lingered. The beautiful Ms Lancaster laughed and took a step toward Sherlock.

"Very fervent, Mr Holmes," she said as she reached for his bow-tie, gently straightening it. But at her touch, Sherlock flinched, ever so slightly.

"Please, call me Sherlock." There was a discomfort in his voice, a slight strain.

"And you may call me Evelyn," she replied, taking a step back. "Mycroft, how can I ever thank you enough?" She never once took her eyes off Sherlock.

"I am glad to have made your evening," was Mycroft's reply. He looked hard at Sherlock, as though to assess if this was all going to be all right. Sherlock glanced back at his brother and in that glance Mycroft could see that his brother was livid. Mycroft also knew, however, that his brother _was_ going to behave. Sherlock, in spite of everything, was going to honour the debt owed his brother.

"Well now…" said Mycroft, clearing his throat, "I shall leave you two to chat. I am glad you've finally been acquainted."

"No one more glad than myself," remarked Evelyn. Her eyes feverishly studied Sherlock's face. "I shall let father know what a wonderful evening this has been for me, Mycroft."

"Hmm, well, it was the least I could do," replied Mycroft. He looked once more at Sherlock, but this time, Sherlock was returning Evelyn's gaze.

"Sherlock…" said Mycroft.

"Hmm?" replied Sherlock, not looking up.

"You _will_ ensure that Ms Lancaster has an enjoyable evening?"

"You can count on me, brother." Sherlock said, finally looking at Mycroft.

The two brothers exchanged glances and in those two seconds, Mycroft knew Sherlock wasat the brink of blinding rage.

"I do after all, owe it to you," said Sherlock, with a smirk. Mycroft laughed nervously, before turning to walk away.

"I'll just…go catch up with Mycroft…" said John, as he scurried along after Mycroft. He hadn't a clue what was happening, but he did not feel comfortable hovering around Sherlock and Evelyn.

"Now, Sherlock," said Evelyn, stepping toward him again, "I have so many things I want to ask you."

"Ms Lancaster…"

"Evelyn, I said to call me Evelyn."

Sherlock took a deep, steady breath to keep from storming out of the place in a fiery rage. This was not the place he wanted to be at and this was certainly not something he wanted to do. Attending to the fancies of a young admirer was the last thing Sherlock would ever consider. Yet, for the sake of _public relations _and that stupid debt owed to Mycroft, here he was. But his anger was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of a string quartet as they started to play.

"Oh, music…" Sherlock remarked. He turned to observe the atrium and noticed the quartet had appeared for a performance of sorts.

"Ah, yes" said Evelyn, turning to see as well, "…music for one final spot of entertainment."

"Entertainment?" asked Sherlock.

"Evelyn!" said a bright voice cutting through, "There you are, my dear!"

"Andrew!" she greeted the young man to whom the bright voice belonged. "You look dashing." Andrew grabbed her in an energetic embrace but not without Sherlock catching Evelyn rolling her eyes as she hugged the man.

"You _must_ have this dance with me! You must! Come on!" said Andrew as he began dragging Evelyn away to the centre of the atrium.

"But Andrew…wait…I…" Evelyn tried to stop Andrew from dragging her away. She looked up at Sherlock, wide-eyed and upset at having their conversation being interrupted.

"Oh, I'll just…wait here…don't worry." Sherlock said, relieved. He smiled his best smile and gently waved her to go ahead and dance. Evelyn resigned herself to dancing with Andrew and let herself be pulled along.

The music began and soon couples started forming as they slowly waltzed around the atrium. Sherlock took this chance to collect himself. His job tonight was to entertain Evelyn, to keep her amused and occupied and to give her the attention she so craved from him. He laughed at the thought. _Attention. What a useless thing to ask for,_ thought Sherlock.

Sherlock knew that he only had a few minutes to come up with something before Evelyn would find a way to weasel out of Andrew's arms and ask him to dance instead. Slipping away now would be rude and would increase his debt to Mycroft. _Think, Sherlock, think, _he shouted in his head.

Just then, he heard the sound of a glass dropping and breaking. It wasn't loud enough to disrupt the dance. In fact, it seemed only Sherlock had heard it.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry…" came a small voice.

Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the voice and realised immediately it was also the source of the dropped glass. There stood Molly, frantically apologising to a waiter for dropping her champagne glass. She hadn't had much to drink, but Molly _was_ clumsy. Her awkwardness amused him and he smirked a little as he watched her try to help the waiter, only to be gently refused.

"You might cut yourself, miss, it's all right," said the kind waiter to Molly.

"I am…so, so sorry!" said Molly, a little quiver in her voice, "Don't cut yourself either, all right?"

"Let the man do his job, Molly," said Sherlock, walking over to her.

"Oh…Sherlock…um, hello," she said, composing herself.

"Molly." said Sherlock.

"I'm so silly, aren't I?" she said with an anxious laugh.

"Molly…" repeated Sherlock.

"You'd think…as a pathologist, holding sharp instruments all day…that I'd be just a little more careful…"

"_Molly_…"

"Yes?" she answered, startled.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked her, smiling gently.

"Would I like to...You're asking me…to dance?" Molly asked, frowning slightly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his eyes twinkling a little. "Would you dance with me?"

With delightful string music playing in the background, Molly took Sherlock's outstretched hand and walked towards the centre of the atrium. He wrapped one hand around her waist and held her hand in the other. Slowly and steadily, they danced.

And slowly and steadily, Evelyn's anger rose as she watched Sherlock glide across the room with Molly.

"Excuse me, Andrew…" said Evelyn, slipping out of Andrew's grasp and removing her hand from his. Her eyes never once left Sherlock who held Molly close and comfortably as he danced with her. Evelyn stealthily wove between the dancing couples as she made her way towards Sherlock and Molly.

"That was _my_ dance," she muttered between clenched teeth, "_My_ dance."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_Thank you all for reading, following and of course, the reviews. Much love. x_

Molly did her best to keep up with Sherlock as they danced among the myriad of couples.

"You must relax, Molly," said Sherlock, "It would also be good to breathe once in a while."

"R-right…I'm just…not very good at these things…" she said with a nervous laugh.

"That's all right," Sherlock replied, gallantly twirling her around, "I am."

"You're probably good at everything…" Molly said, immediately wishing she hadn't. Her cheeks turned a soft pink. Sherlock smiled. Her rosy cheeks were a frequent sight for him and they never failed to amuse.

"You need to stop stating the obvious, Molly," Sherlock advised, "It could be your undoing."

"Well, no…I…just, well, I…" Molly struggled to respond.

"Just keep dancing, Molly."

"Right. Sorry."

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed a solitary figure among the huddled pairs. Evelyn was slowly making her way towards him. Clearly, his plan had not succeeded. It seemed him finding someone to dance with was no deterrent at all for his keen admirer to come looking for him. Unknowingly, Sherlock tensed up. His fingers around Molly's waist tightened. It did not go unnoticed by Molly.

"Sherlock…are you okay?" she asked, looking up at him. But Sherlock seemed to be staring ahead at something, or someone. There was no way Molly could turn to see what he was looking at. So she kept moving with him as he did, looking up at his face. His furrowed brows concerned her, but she knew better than to disrupt him. He was thinking, and thinking very hard, it seemed.

The distance between Evelyn and Sherlock shortened with every high-heeled step she took. Her vision seemed to have emptied the atrium of people, leaving only Sherlock and his curious dancing partner.

Thoughts and ideas raced through Sherlock's mind but none settled and much to his displeasure, he was feeling something akin to panic. Thankfully with many experiences, mostly life-threatening, he managed to keep his heart rate normal. His skin stayed cool and dry with not a single bead of sweat. Yet, his fingers quietly betrayed him. Again, Molly felt the pressure of his hand around her waist and her hand gripped tight by the other.

"Sherlock," she whispered, looking intently at him, "Are you…"

"I can see you're a marvellous dancer, Sherlock." said Evelyn, her face beaming with her prettiest smile. She walked towards Sherlock who still held Molly to him. "Would you do me the honour?" She extended a graceful hand towards him. Her wrists were slim, delicate.

"Molly," Sherlock said, smiling handsomely at Evelyn as he let go of Molly, allowing her to turn around. "Allow me to introduce you to…"

"Ms Evelyn Lancaster…" said Molly, with a gasp. "How do you do, Ms Lancaster?"

Evelyn shifted her gaze to Molly. The dazzling smile departed and her eyes turned cold as she scanned the pathologist's nervous face.

"And who are you?" she asked Molly stiffly.

"Of course!" Sherlock interrupted, laughing boyishly. "She's your boss, Molly. Well, in some sense."

"Yes…" Molly answered quietly. "She's on the hospital's board of directors." There was no doubt that the very presence of Evelyn Lancaster intimidated Molly.

"You haven't answered my question." Evelyn asked Molly sharply. For the first time, her gaze had fully left Sherlock's face, as she stared hard at this girl who shrank before her.

"Who. Are. You?" repeated Evelyn. There was an edge to her voice and it did not escape Sherlock. This was something he had not read from her previously.

"Molly…Molly Hooper. Pathology…I mean, I'm one of the pathologists. I-I'm mostly at the morgue." Molly answered obediently.

"Molly is a colleague," said Sherlock, disrupting Evelyn. She turned back to face him and one corner of her lips lifted into a smirk.

"A colleague?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock, making sure to look right into Evelyn's eyes. "And an admirer of my work too, won't you say, Molly?"

"Oh…" Molly laughed awkwardly, "No, I just…"

"I do not like to think that this admiration was…shared, Sherlock." Evelyn said, slowly. She took a step closer to Sherlock, gently brushing something off his jacket.

"No. It would seem not." Sherlock replied warily. He tilted his chin just slightly away from her hand which now reached up to delicately touch his collar.

"I don't know if you remember, Sherlock," she said, finally stepping away from him, "But Mycroft did say I was a fervent admirer."

"I remember everything." Sherlock remarked. His reply made her chuckle and her beautiful smile radiated across her porcelain face.

"Then I believe my fervent admiration should be rewarded." Evelyn stared piercingly into Sherlock's eyes and he read every word that she had not said.

"Ms Lancaster…"

"Evelyn, I said!" she snapped, unintentionally.

"Ms Lancaster," Sherlock persisted, his voice lowered but hardening in tone, "You must know that while I acknowledge the _feverish_ madness of your admiration for my work, your admiration is vacant and of no value to me _or_ to my work. And clearly, you know little else of me other than what you _wish_ to be acquainted with and I daresay, Ms Lancaster, with all due respect, that _acquainted _is hardly the verb you were thinking of."

As the crowd danced continuously around, Sherlock and Evelyn stood before each other, their eyes firmly on each other. Evelyn could feel her blood rush furiously through her veins to the top of her head and the peaks of her cheekbones. Sherlock no longer wore the charming smile he had on earlier. His clear eyes had gone gray, steely, as he stared mercilessly at a woman he wanted nothing to do with. Her need for his attention sickened him, and the thought of all the time he had wasted this evening infuriated him.

The tension in the air thickened as Evelyn stood before Sherlock, fury rising in her face. Molly was at a bit of loss and wondered whether to speak, to stay or quietly move away.

"Ladies and gentlemen…" came the voice of the cellist. The dancing bodies slowed down to a halt as the cellist addressed the crowd. "This will be our last piece for the evening. We hope you've all had a splendid time."

Gentle applause could be heard as more couples joined those who were poised for the night's final dance. By this time, Molly had had enough and silently slunk away into the crowd. So many emotions ran through Molly as she carefully navigated her way among the dancing figures. She had been unnerved, first, by Sherlock's dance with her. Despite that, she had enjoyed the proximity to him, a proximity she had only encountered one other time when he had pinned her against the corridor to the morgue, asking if she could get him two pairs of the freshest human kidneys she could find, for an experiment. Shaking her head at the memory and that of the dance, she now frowned in concern over the encounter with Evelyn.

"Molly, are you all right?" came a familiar voice.

"Oh, hello John," said Molly, managing a smile.

"Is everything…okay?" John asked, looking carefully at her. She nodded, smiling well.

"Has Sherlock been bullying you again? I recognise that look." John remarked.

"It's nothing. Really, it's…all good." Molly replied.

"A drink, maybe?" asked John, unconvinced.

"Oh god, yes." sighed Molly. John waved a nearby waiter over who came promptly with a tray of drinks.

"Drink up," said John.

"Yes, thank you." Molly said as she sipped her wine eagerly.

In the centre of the atrium, bodies began moving as the string quartet moved their bows to the last song of the night.

"The last song…and nobody to dance with." Evelyn said, smiling wryly at Sherlock.

"It's way past my bedtime, Ms Lancaster." Sherlock answered coldly.

"Mycroft tells me you never sleep…"

"And you listen to whatever Mycroft tells you?"

"On the contrary, Sherlock," she said with a laugh, "He listens to whatever _I_ tell him."

Sherlock looked angrily at the menacing smile that bloomed on her face. She was, in all scientific and aesthetic sense, what the world would call beautiful. Yet, every look and every smile she gave Sherlock repulsed everything he stood for.

"It helps to have a father whom Mycroft desperately needs to keep placated." Evelyn said, her eyes dangerously lifting to meet Sherlock's. "What would Mycroft say, I wonder, if I told him I didn't get to dance at the gala this evening? Such a shame, don't you think?"

Sherlock let out a laugh before meeting her eyes again, not a trace of smile anywhere on his face.

"If it's a dance you want, you shall have it, Ms Lancaster." Expressionless, Sherlock took a step toward her. Evelyn's heart thumped just a little harder, despite her best efforts. Still, she coolly reached for Sherlock's hand and placed it around her waist as he took her hand in perfect synchrony.

The pair danced expertly across the atrium, smoothly avoiding other couples that were perhaps not as seasoned as the two.

"You are most _definitely_ a wonderful dancer, Sherlock," whispered Evelyn as she brought her face near to his. Their cheeks almost touched as she danced, pressing close to his tall frame. Sherlock kept moving, choosing to focus instead on analysing all the poor footwork he could see across the atrium.

"Are you not talking to me now?" asked Evelyn quietly as she breathed in Sherlock's scent.

"I didn't think it was conversation you were after." said Sherlock, curtly.

Laughing softly, Evelyn now rested her head against his neck as she embraced the full proximity of his body against hers.

"Sherlock," she said quietly, "This dance mustn't end." With that, she planted the softest kiss on his face. It took all of Sherlock's willpower to not shove her away from him and hop into a taxi home. Again, there was a silent panic that ran through his body. He knew what she was asking of him and he was _never_ going to accede. But running away was only going to make matters worse. This would not bode well with Mycroft and to have something not bode well with Mycroft meant imminent inconvenience to Sherlock's life.

"Ms Lancaster…"

"I said," she murmured in his ear, "To call me Evelyn."

"We _will_ have to call it an evening," said Sherlock.

"Oh, I don't think so." Evelyn answered quietly.

"Ms Lancaster…"

"If you do so much as walk out of this place," she whispered, "I will be sure to inform that sweet brother of yours how dreadful my evening has turned out to be."

Sherlock scoffed at her remark.

"Are you trying to threaten me, using my _brother_, of all people?"

At this, Evelyn's body stiffened.

"My brother…is of no consequence to me. I do not owe it to him to have to endure _such_ a misfortune as this of having met you, Ms Lancaster." Sherlock replied, whispering cruelly into her ear. The sensation of his words so near her sent lightning through her veins. But his words themselves, snapped her from her stupor.

"I could _hurt_ your brother, Sherlock." she said quietly as her hand reached up to touch his face. He laughed.

"You really couldn't." he replied, turning his face away from her touch.

"If you walk away, I will _raise hell_ and make a scene you couldn't run from." Evelyn threatened between her teeth.

"Not if I make a scene first." Sherlock whispered, as his face broke into a bright smile.

His smile perplexed Evelyn, but nothing perplexed Sherlock at this moment. Unbeknownst to Evelyn, Sherlock had long spotted Molly standing beside John and had led them right to where Molly stood. John and Molly hadn't noticed, of course, for they were busy relaxing and chatting with their wine glasses in hand. Molly, in particular, had memories she needed to forget for a while.

Then, quick as lightning, Sherlock spun Evelyn away from him and in doing so, took a step backwards to where Molly was standing, deliberately ramming into her.

"Look out!" exclaimed John as Sherlock's towering frame reversed into Molly.

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed as well, as Sherlock's back knocked into her.

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry, Ms Hooper!" Sherlock apologised loud and clear. Doing so, he casually let go of Evelyn's hand, as he reached for a stumbling Molly.

John was about to reach for Molly to steady her when Sherlock shoved John surreptitiously aside, grabbing onto Molly, as though she was falling over.

"I'm all right, Sherlock," Molly said with a perplexed smile. Sherlock frowned, both impressed and annoyed that she had not fallen.

"Right…" he said quietly to himself, his brain thinking fast. He had only a few seconds before Evelyn was going to scream, or do something insane. He needed something to _outdo_ whatever hell she promised she would raise.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he whispered to a bewildered Molly as he grabbed her hand that held her wine glass and crushed her fingers into it.

Molly let out a gasp and then an exclamation of pain as the crushed wine glass cut her fingers. By then, most of the crowd had noticed the chaos and stopped to see what had happened.

"Oh god, she's bleeding," muttered John as he scrambled to help Molly.

"Yes, she is!" shouted Sherlock.

"It's all right, everyone, I'm a doctor, I'll see to her…"

"No, that's all right, Doctor Watson, it looks like she needs an emergency room." Sherlock exclaimed loudly.

"Sherlock, _what on earth…_" John asked incredulously.

"I'll take over from here, Doctor," declared Sherlock as he held Molly's bleeding hand high in the air, keeping it suspended and rushed out of the atrium with her.

The crowd murmured in concern, necks craned toward the direction of Sherlock walking briskly as he guided Molly out, keeping her bleeding hand suspended. Whispers of _the poor thing_ and _I hope she'll be all right_ filled the room. John dusted his jacket off, composing himself when he noticed the seething figure that stood near him.

"Ms Lancaster, is everything…" asked John, walking towards Evelyn. She remained transfixed in the direction of Sherlock and Molly's retreating figures. When they were out of sight, she took a sharp breath, turned on her heels and walked slowly away. John watched her, bewildered.

"Certainly an evening to remember…" John told himself as the crowd slowly dispersed.

Outside, Sherlock quickly hailed a cab and the two scrambled inside. The slow burn of glass cuts stung Molly's hand. She winced every two seconds from the pain.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked gently, turning to Molly. His eyes softened when he saw her biting her lip to keep from wincing further.

"It's…fine," her voice quivered. She was this close to crying from the shock and the pain but she did not want any more embarrassment.

"Here, just hold your hand up like this and it shouldn't bleed so much," said Sherlock, teaching her how to keep her wrist vertical. Molly did as she was told.

"We'll get you home and clean this up." Sherlock said.

"Home?" she asked, puzzled, "I thought you said the emer-…"

"I can help you with that." Sherlock said calmly.

"Oh…right." Molly answered, a little unsure.

For the first time, Molly saw Sherlock break from his usual posture. He exhaled as he leaned back in his seat, staring up at the roof of the cab. His hair was a messy crop, the deep brown curls covering his bright eyes.

"Are...are you…okay?" she asked, finally.

"Mmm." Sherlock answered, not answering at all.

"Sherlock…."

"Not now, Molly." he said, sighing. "Not now."

"Okay."

As he sat, studying the roof of the cab, Molly could see in his eyes that his mind was spinning, as it always did. But his posture was truly unusual. Molly had never imagined she would see him sit like that and so _unwound_. There was also something else she had never seen before in Sherlock. His face, his body, his speech all registered strain, a sort of fatigue. He was always calm, collected, clever, but now, he merely sat there.

Instinctively, with her one good hand, Molly reached across to Sherlock. Her hand paused just before his face when she realised what she was doing. However, she couldn't resist and gently pushed a few of those curls from his eyes. As she did so, her fingers glided across his cheekbones.

In the few seconds that Molly Hooper touched his face, Sherlock slowly shut his eyes and let her. When her hand left his face, the absence of her fingertips was remarkably distinct. He opened his eyes again and turned to face her. When he did, Molly smiled sheepishly and mouthed, _sorry_.

_She's always apologising_, thought Sherlock. It seemed her automated response to everything he said or did to her.

"You look tired." she said.

"Hmm, yes…" he replied, looking at her. He was perplexed that the absence of her touch was more indelible than anything that had happened to him that evening.

"I'll make you a coffee when we get back," Molly said, settling into her own seat. "You'd better sleep. My flat's quite a way away."

At her words, Sherlock Holmes, the man who never slept, sank back into his seat and let his eyelids fall.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Thank you everyone for coming to read this.  
Thank you also for some very insightful thoughts in the reviews.  
I really appreciate it and will work hard on this piece of writing. x_

The taxi drove into the night as Molly sat and Sherlock slept. Molly did her best to hold her hand up properly as she willed the sting of the cuts away. It was quite a sight; one gash across the palm and several ugly cuts between her fingers. The thing about glass cuts is that they don't leave perfect lines as knives do. They seem straight on the surface, but the wound is always jagged, intensifying the bleeding and the pain. Thankfully, if anyone could withstand the sight of blood, cuts and wounds, it was Molly Hooper. The pain was horrid, but the sight, she could stomach.

Just as the taxi turned the corner to Molly's flat, Sherlock's eyes somehow opened just in time before it came to a halt. Perhaps he hadn't slept at all. He swiftly paid the bill and held the door open for Molly. With her good hand, Molly reached into the little handbag that she had over her shoulder and reached for her keys. Sherlock stood patiently beside her, his eyes scanning her hand.

Once they were in the flat, Molly sank gratefully into her sofa. She propped her head up with her good hand as she planted her elbow on the armrest. The contrast in movement was almost amusing. Molly was slow and careful, but Sherlock had stepped right in, whipped his long coat off and began to pace around the small flat.

"Ah, there it is." he said, reaching for the first aid kit Molly had kept beneath piles of wool and fabric.

"How did you know it was there?" Molly asked, amazed.

"I know that you do needlework. You sew, knit. In fact, you'd picked it up a few years ago." Sherlock replied, setting the white box on the dining table.

"Yes, but how does that link to you knowing to look there?"

"You weren't very good when you first started," he answered, with an amused half-smile, "And so you'd always have it nearby, but now that you _are_ reasonably good, you barely use it… Good gracious, Molly, how old is this iodine solution?"

As he rummaged through the contents of the very unused first aid kit, he removed more expired ointments, tweezers that were brown from rust and band-aids with their adhesives all melted.

"Molly, we need something for the cuts on your hand." Sherlock asked, as he continued rummaging.

"I'll just go rinse the wounds first…I'm sure it'll be fine," said Molly, getting up. "I've seen worse anyway."

Molly flipped the lights on in her small kitchen and ran the tap. Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes and ran her hand under the cold, rushing water. As it rushed over her raw wounds, Molly tried to steady her breathing as the pain rocked her. When she couldn't stand it anymore, she quickly shut the tap off and opened her eyes. When she did, she realised they were wet with tears. The pain _was _terrible.

"Here, dry your wounds." Sherlock had shown up beside her in the kitchen and handed her a hand towel. "I found it in the bathroom."

"Thanks," said Molly. She walked carefully back to sit at her dining table.

"I've found an antiseptic that we could use. And some gauze and medical tape." Sherlock said as he sat down beside her.

It was a situation Molly would have never imagined happening to her. That Sherlock was doing something _for_ her. And it seemed, on all accounts, like he cared, somehow, that she was in pain. But then, the thought finally struck her – why had he hurt her in the first place?

"Sherlock…"

"Hold still first, please." he said, maneuvering her arm. When he had her arm flat on the table with her palm facing upward, he rolled up his sleeves and began unscrewing the bottle of antiseptic. Molly waited as he dabbed some of the solution on to some cotton balls.

"This will hurt, Molly. Are you ready?" he said as he looked intently at her hand, his own hand poised over her wounds.

"Wait. Sherlock…"

"Yes?" he said, looking up.

"I-I have a question…" she asked, not knowing where to look.

"Yes?" asked Sherlock, slowly.

"At the dance…I mean…at the gala, just now…why…"

"Why did I dance with you?" interrupted Sherlock.

"No…that wasn't it, I…" she responded, her voice shrinking.

It seemed he hadn't heard her, because Sherlock carried on.

"I needed a diversion, that's all." Sherlock answered stonily, "You were there, you were someone I knew, so I asked you to dance."

Stunned by his response to a question she hadn't intended to ask, at least not now, Molly just stayed quiet. Her eyes registered puzzlement as her glance darted about the room. Sherlock sighed, putting the cotton ball down.

"Molly, you know me. And you're a clever girl," said Sherlock, "So I am positive you know that I don't _dance_." He paused deliberately before carefully enunciating the word _dance_, lengthening its vowel. A few minutes of quiet passed between the two. Sherlock was getting impatient and looked rudely away from Molly. Molly merely sat, her head bowed as she wondered where to look. It was more than Sherlock could bear.

"Molly," said Sherlock. His voice had hardened.

"You…always think so fast, you know?" she said, finally, raising her eyes to meet his.

"That's no revelation at all…"

"Will you listen, Sherlock…For once, will you _listen_?" Molly whispered angrily. She looked away and laughed quietly.

"You asking me for a dance is no different than you asking me for a spleen. You think I don't know that, Sherlock?"

"Well, I…" Sherlock barely answered, a little taken aback.

"I don't care why you asked me to dance, really, because I'm sure you know I enjoyed it." Molly said, laughing bitterly.

Breathing hard, Molly willed her tears away. She stared hard at Sherlock as he returned her gaze with unusually quizzical eyes.

"What…were you going to ask me?" asked Sherlock quietly.

"Oh," Molly scoffed, "You've only just realised I had a different question in mind?"

"I…Molly, what is this? You're not usually like this…" Sherlock asked, perplexed as he studied Molly's face.

"Of course, I'm not, Sherlock…you've just…cut up my bloody hand!" Molly exclaimed, rising abruptly from her seat.

"Molly. Calm yourself." Sherlock said softly.

Standing there, Molly looked down at Sherlock, for the first time in her life. His face that she adored and the bright eyes she loved were right before her. This was a man Molly would _die _for. Yet, tonight, it was this face, these hands and this man, that plunged a knife so deep into her tiny, bullied heart. It's not like he hadn't hurt her before. But those were manageable, because Molly always knew what she was in for. In spite of everything, Molly _was_ clever.

"Please…leave." Molly whispered, staring hard at Sherlock.

"But Molly, your wounds…"

"I work in a hospital, Sherlock." she answered. "I can manage just fine. Thank you."

This was unfamiliar to Sherlock. Never had he such proximity to emotional confrontations as these. Most of all, Molly's outburst was something that he never saw coming. It perturbed him that he didn't see it. Still, the night was proving hellish, with far too much unnecessary discomfort and tension for Sherlock. He rose slowly from his seat and returned to looking back down at Molly. Usually when he did, her gaze would look shyly away or to the side whilst hiding a smile. But this evening, when he looked into the pathologist's eyes, they returned his gaze head on, not a trace of a smile. Molly looked right at Sherlock, then turned and walked towards her window.

"You know the way out." she said coldly.

Swiftly, Sherlock wrapped his coat around himself and left her flat without a word. When Molly heard her door click shut, she walked back to the table and methodically began dressing her own wounds. Each time the stinging solution burned on her flesh, Molly closed her eyes and remembered her anger towards Sherlock. The burn of her anger and disappointment outdid the mere stinging of flesh.

Suddenly, Molly let out a bitter laugh as she realised she never got to ask her question But then, her laugh melted into a slow exhale as the tears she had resisted, fell gradually from her eyes. Molly refused to sob, but refusing only served to choke her. Still, she breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, fighting tears. As Molly tried to piece what she could of the night's events together, she knew eventually why Sherlock had hurt her. The awkward dance, Ms Lancaster, suddenly taking flight from the gala – they all pieced themselves together in Molly's head. Molly was not a fool.

But the real question, the real heartbreaking question was this: _How _could he have hurt her? It was the answer to this question that made it impossible for Molly to control herself anymore.

As she continued to carefully clean her wounds, Molly let herself cry.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Thank you, again, to all who have been following this story.  
Sorry this one took a lot longer. Many things happened these few weeks.  
To all who have supported thus far and shared your thoughts in your reviews,  
thank you from the bottom of my heart. x_

In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock couldn't care for the beautiful London lights that streamed past his window. His jaw was clenched tight as he stared intently ahead, focusing on deleting all irrelevant information that had trespassed his mind. What seemed like a chaotic, flurry of events replayed themselves clearly in his sharp memory as he slowly removed each moment. In spite of his acute awareness of everything in his environment, Sherlock had neglected to notice that his mobile phone had been buzzing in his jacket pocket considerably since leaving the gala. He was only made aware of it when it buzzed on the cab ride home, snapping him out of his little mental rearrangement exercise. Reaching into his jacket, he was predicting a whole slew of texts and missed calls. Anyone could guess that Mycroft would be frantically contacting Sherlock. After blowing off his debt to Mycroft and blowing it off in such terrible fashion, Mycroft was sure to be livid. Sherlock took a deep breath as he swiped across his mobile screen, unlocking it. Sure enough, there were a few missed calls from Mycroft. After all, Mycroft always preferred to call. As Sherlock had not answered any of his, however, Mycroft had made an exception.

_I've just spoken to Ms Lancaster. Can this be true? _– M.

_I must say I'm impressed. I was expecting worse. _– M

_I never imagined you would listen to me.  
You've certainly surprised me this evening. _– M

_She was absolutely delighted and thanked me profusely.  
You didn't use a decoy or something, did you?  
Paid one of your homeless chaps to impersonate you or something? _– M

_In any case, I am grateful.  
She's happy, her father's spoken with me and we can safely say the night was a success._

_Your debt is no more. Goodnight, Sherlock. _– M

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he read and re-read those last two messages. His heart couldn't help but beat a little harder against his chest as the same panic he had felt all evening crept into his veins again.

"How is this possible?" he whispered to himself. It was a good thing Mycroft seemed pleased. It meant months of peace, maybe even a year of peace, without his brother constantly poking about his business. But how Evelyn Lancaster could _possibly_ have been delighted simply evaded the consulting detective. Sherlock shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket and stared out of the window. The harsh street lamps felt harsher still as they beamed down his face. Sherlock was in a dilemma. He wanted everything about this evening to leave his mind. Everything about the gala and Ms Lancaster, he wanted out of his mind. It was clear, however, that this wasn't the end. There was something terribly wrong and Sherlock could feel it seep into his bones. The dilemma that racked Sherlock was whether to pursue this feeling or not. Was she up to something? Was she going to interfere with him some more? These were things he never imagined having to think about and he certainly didn't want to. But it seemed he was at the cusp of something. Sherlock thought back at her feverish gaze whenever she looked at him and the chilling way in which she reached for him.

_This dance mustn't end, Sherlock_.

The words swam up to the surface of his mind as Sherlock analysed their gravity. _No, _he thought,_you won't let it. _ He was going to see Evelyn Lancaster very soon. Sherlock sighed angrily as he clenched his fists. Everything he had put way neatly now came flooding back. The first time she reached for his bow tie, the way she had contoured her body to fit his, that soft but repulsive kiss she left on his skin. Sherlock shuddered at her unwanted proximity. The mad thirst for his attention unnerved him, but how dangerous was this madness going to be? Shutting his eyes now, Sherlock began to think long and hard about everything Evelyn Lancaster had done or said. Despite having put everything away, Sherlock's train of thought moved slowly and meticulously through each detail of everything that had occurred tonight.

In uncharacteristic fashion, Sherlock's thoughts swarmed him so much that he had not realised the taxi had stopped right at his door.

"Sir, we've arrived. 221B Baker Street, wasn't it?" asked the cabby.  
"Hmm?" Oh yes, thank you." Sherlock muttered, clumsily pulling out a few notes and handing them to the cabby.

As the cab sped off, Sherlock opened the door that led to his flat. While peeling his long coat off himself, Sherlock trudged slowly up only to be met with John standing right at the top of the stairs.

"I promise I won't ask what the _hell_ you were thinking just now at the gala," John began, "But I do want to know if Molly's all right."  
"She's fine." Sherlock answered, walking right past John. He hooked his coat casually behind his room door and cricked his neck.  
"How's her hand?  
"If you're so concerned about Molly why don't you go see her at her flat?" Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He took his loosened bow tie out from his pocket and threw it on his desk  
"Her flat? I thought you were bringing her to the emergency room?" John asked, walking up to Sherlock.  
"Not for a few cuts." Sherlock replied, his back still to John.  
"A few cuts? Sherlock, you rammed an entire wine glass into that poor girl's hand…"  
"It's not like I'd killed her." Sherlock replied coldly, turning to face John.

John laughed, shaking his head.

"You… are cold-blooded. Really, you are."  
"Say what you will. I have more urgent things to think about."  
"Like what?" John asked angrily.  
"Never you mind," Sherlock replied, pausing to check his phone. No calls, no messages.

John watched Sherlock as he continued looking through his phone. He could not believe how calm and collected Sherlock seemed after what was clearly a dramatic evening. John took a deep breath and attempted conversation again.

"Sherlock, why…"  
"I thought you promised you weren't going to ask?" Sherlock interrupted, returning his phone to his pocket.  
"Fine. I suppose it _is_ pointless asking a crazy man why he does crazy things."  
"It wasn't crazy."

Sighing, John sat himself down in his usual armchair. Unexpectedly, Sherlock sat down in the other armchair across from John, staring past Johns' head and into the kitchen. It was clear that the wheels in Sherlock's mind had begun moving and he was thinking hard. John knew from the way Sherlock's eyes, at first glance, seemed to glaze over but upon deeper inspection, could see just the tiniest movements in the iris as thoughts danced about in Sherlock's head.

"Well, then I'll ask you something else." John said, breaking the silence.  
"There really is no need for you to talk at this moment, John." Sherlock replied. His eyes focused on something far away as his mind spun.  
"Are _you_ all right?" asked John.  
"Yes, perfectly fine."  
"Did you get hurt?"  
"No."  
"Did you help Molly with her wounds?"  
"Yes. Well, sort of."  
"Right, I'll just…assume you helped, somehow," said John, "Did you apologise?"  
"Apologise?" Sherlock's eyes shifted from their far-off gaze onto John's face.  
"Yes. Apologise." John replied. "It's what humans do if they've hurt one another."  
"I offered to dress her wounds."  
"Offered? So you didn't actually check on her wounds?"  
"I went up to her flat, found the medical supplies…" Sherlock frowned as the scene replayed itself, "Then she lost it a bit and I was told to leave the flat."  
"What did you say to her to make her chase you out of her flat?" John asked, incredulous.  
"I don't remember."  
"You don't remember? Are you Sherlock Holmes?"  
"I might remember, later on." Sherlock said, as he reached for his violin, "Like I said, I have more pressing issues at hand."

Brusque and irregular notes burst out of Sherlock's violin as he ran the bow rapidly across the violin strings. John flinched from Sherlock's somewhat aggressive melody. Unable to stand it, John rose abruptly from his seat and yanked the violin out from beneath Sherlock's chin.

"You are inconsiderate to me, rude to Mrs Hudson and bratty to Mycroft. But you've never laid a finger on us. Never. You are as rude to Molly as you are to us but _how_ could you have just hurt her like that? And without even a semblance of an apology after?" John exclaimed, staring hard at Sherlock.

"Go and apologise to Molly. First thing tomorrow." John demanded.  
"I brought her home, offered to dress her wounds. Surely that counts as more than an apol-…"  
"Are you _stupid_?" Is Molly some sort of rag doll to you, Sherlock?" John interrupts, angrily.  
"A rag doll?" Sherlock said, "Why would you say that?"  
"Are you sure you're the world's best consulting detective?" John asked sarcastically.

With a deep sigh, Sherlock rose slowly from his seat, placing his violin bow on the mantelpiece. Sherlock was in no mood to be lectured tonight and certain not from the moral compass himself.

"All right. I will apologise." Sherlock muttered reluctantly.  
"Tomorrow."  
"As soon as I can."  
"Fine. You make sure you do that."

As John walked off to his room, Sherlock shut his eyes and tilted his head back. Rarely did Sherlock get plagued by headaches, but tonight, the tension gripped his temples. How he longed for a cigarette to help ease the knot, but no, this was no time to relax. Like he said, there were more pressing issues at hand.

Evelyn had her mobile phone pressed to her ear as she sat comfortably by her dressing table. She was wrapped in a black silk robe. Her dark brown hair was out of its chignon and flowed like waves down her back.

"Yes, it was lovely. They served your favourite champagne." said Evelyn brightly. With her free hand, she ran a brush through her hair whilst checking her reflection.

"It's a pity you couldn't come tonight. You could have met Sherlock too." When she said his name, Evelyn gripped the brush a little tighter, her eyes darkening.

"What's he like? Oh, he was charming, daddy. Just as I had imagined." Evelyn said with a slow smile moving across on her face.

"What's that? Will I see him again?" Rising from her dressing table, Evelyn sank down gracefully into her bed. Her brown hair lay sprawled around her, like a pool of dark bronze.

"Of course, daddy. Of course."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Thank you for bearing with the slow pace of this story.  
I know I can't please everyone, but well, I do my best._

_Again, thank you for reading and reviewing. x_

_— _

The familiar chords of a digital marimba slowly chimed through Molly's ears, waking her, causing her eyes to open. It was Monday morning and work beckoned. She reached for her phone and silenced its alarm. Turning to lie flat on her back, Molly did a little stretch and remembered her hands. She brought her fingers close to her face and examined them. She had bandaged them nicely and although they felt a little tender, the bleeding had stopped. Or so she had thought. When Molly sat up, she noticed her pillow was stained where she had been resting her hands under head. Thin, maroon streaks of dried blood decorated the edge of her pillow. "Shoot." Molly muttered to herself as she whipped the pillow cover off and threw it in her laundry basket.

Despite having her fingers swathed in gauze and the base of her palm bandaged, Molly functioned as per normal. She was able to make her tea her usual elaborate way and had an uneventful breakfast as usual. She got dressed with no problem and put up her hair just fine. Of course, she took great pains not to knock her hand about, but Molly was fine. All in all, this was just another normal Monday.

At the hospital, Molly put her things away in her locker, put on her coat and headed for the pathology lab. She was in the midst of a few projects, not to mention the daily intake of bodies she had to process.

"Morning, Molly." said a cheerful, plump man writing busily on a little clipboard.  
"Morning, Dr Wright," she replied with a smile.  
"How was your Sunday evening then? Had fun at the gala?" he asked, looking up from his writing.  
"Oh…uh, splendid." Molly answered. "The exhibit was lovely and so was the food. Excellent chocolate tarts." She chuckled as Dr Wright nodded approvingly.  
"Nothing like a good chocolate dessert to make a perfect evening," he remarked. "If I hadn't had to oversee that little emergency at the nursing home, I could have been there."  
"That's what happens when you're the Head of Pathology. The bosses never get to play," said Molly with a laugh. "It's a pity you weren't there. Those were good chocolate tarts. You'd have liked them."  
"Oh I know I would have, Molly," said Dr Wright, with a hearty laugh as he drummed his fingers over his generous belly. "Without a shadow of a doubt." Molly and her supervisor chuckled happily before continuing with their tasks.

Molly began with her usual routine of looking through her schedule of work for the day. She ran through the list of bodies she had to process, made note of any special cases and readied all the necessary paperwork. Just as she was flipping through her files, she heard a sudden crash and clatter.

"I'm getting clumsy with age," muttered Dr Wright with a sigh as he got up from his seat. He had dropped his entire box of stationery. Pencils and pens were rolling away as calipers, scissors and paperclips lay scattered all over the floor.

"Here, let me help." Molly said, swiftly picking up all the escaping paraphernalia.

In a few minutes, Molly had helped Dr Wright gather everything. She walked over to his end of the lab and handed him his stationery. Immediately, Dr Wright saw the bandages on Molly's hand and exclaimed.

"Goodness, Molly. What happened to your hand?"  
"Oh, just a few cuts, no matter," she said, shrugging her shoulders.  
"I don't like the look of them," said Dr Wright, gingerly turning her hand to face him. He pointed to the base of the bandages and Molly could see that they were just beginning to get stained with blood.  
"I thought the bleeding had stopped," said Molly with a sigh. "I didn't feel a thing."  
"Well, clearly it hasn't stopped." said Dr Wright, frowning.  
"I'll go get them dressed and bandaged again," said Molly  
"Yes, you do just that and then you go _straight_ home," her supervisor instructed.  
"It's fine, Dr Wright, I can still…"  
"Doctor's orders, Molly. We can handle the workload for now. You don't come back till it's healed," said Dr Wright firmly.  
"Well, I'm a doctor too, sort of. So I think it's fine and I can continue." argued Molly.  
"In that case, it's supervisor's orders. As your boss, I am giving you four days of medical leave. Go home and get your hand healed." Dr Wright insisted.  
"But Dr Wright…"  
"Don't argue with your boss, Molly. Go home. Get well." Dr Wright said kindly.

Resigned, Molly gathered what would have been the day's work and handed them to Dr Wright.

"You sure about this?" she asked him, worried.  
"We'll be fine, Molly." Dr Wright said, smiling, "You work too hard anyway. I don't remember the last time you had a day off."  
"Well, it's a great place to be." Molly said, smiling.  
"Not many people would say that, not even pathologists." Dr Wright said with a chuckle. "See you on Friday, Molly."  
"Thanks, Dr Wright."

Sherlock had had a full night to think. He rarely slept and last night had clearly not been a night for sleeping. The whole situation with Evelyn had hung around him like a dark cloud, refusing to clear. Not only did it refuse to budge, it threatened to storm and Sherlock could not shake the unnerving feeling that he was going to be hearing from that woman anytime now.

On top of that, John had reminded him of one last irritating detail: Molly. There was no consequence to be had, fussing over what had happened with Molly. This was a small matter and it irritated Sherlock no end that John had brought it up. And now that he _had_ mentioned it, the thought of having to apologise to Molly was refusing to budge too. Two separate situations, linked by the tiniest thread, weighed down on Sherlock's mind.

"Good morning." said John, joining Sherlock at the breakfast table. "Slept well?"  
"Marvellously." Sherlock replied, staring out of the window.  
"Hmm. Right. Not eating either, I see." said John, staring down at Sherlock's untouched breakfast that Mrs Hudson had prepared.  
"I had some tea."  
"Of course." John said, pouring himself a cup.

John watched Sherlock from the rim of his teacup as he sipped his Earl Grey. The same far-off look occupied Sherlock's face. As usual, John could read nothing from Sherlock's expression. All he knew was that Sherlock was being Sherlock, locked in his thoughts.

"If you're not going to eat that, I am." John said, reaching for Sherlock's plate. "Mrs Hudson's wasted enough food on you."  
"Be my guest." Sherlock answered quietly, not caring in the least.

John smirked and began tucking away at the breakfast. It hadn't been prepared too long ago. The eggs were still warm and the toast hadn't gotten entirely soggy yet.

"So…" began John.  
"Mmm?"  
"You going to St. Bart's today?"  
"What for?"

John sighed and put down his cutlery. He glared hard at Sherlock who still gazed out of the window.

"To apologise to Molly." said John. "I said to do it first thing in the morning."  
"People are just so…needy," muttered Sherlock.  
"Molly doesn't _need_ your apology, Sherlock. But you owe it to her."  
"Why don't _you_ do it then?" Sherlock replied, coldly.  
"Because I didn't shove a glass –" John paused and collected himself. "Just do it, Sherlock. Get it out of the way."

At this, Sherlock turned to John and looked right at him. John looked back, unsure of what Sherlock was going to do.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a smirk, "Thank you, John." He rose abruptly from his seat and put his coat and scarf on.

"What? Where are you going?" he asked, his eyes following Sherlock.  
"To get things out of the way." Sherlock said. "Just like you said."  
"Just….don't be rude…again, Sherlock." John said, resigned. The concept of an apology was clearly still foreign to the man. With a smirk and a wave, Sherlock briskly exited the flat and headed for Molly's workplace.

Dr Wright was sitting quietly at his desk in the pathology lab when the doors swung open. He looked up from his reports and saw that it was Sherlock.

"Ah, Mr Holmes. How can I help you?" he asked, amused. Dr Wright knew of Sherlock's shenanigans at the hospital. He often reprimanded Molly for not being firm enough with Sherlock. But he himself had encountered the stubbornness of the detective on a few occasions, thus sympathised with her also.

"I can't loan you whole brains, Mr Holmes. Not again." said Dr Wright.  
"Pity." Sherlock replied, his eyes scanning the lab. "But I'm here to see Molly."  
"I sent Molly home."  
"Home? Why?" asked Sherlock.  
"She's got some nasty wounds on her hand. They were still bleeding. So I sent her home."  
"Really?" Sherlock's eyes widened. A small but surprising wave of concern swept through him.  
"Yes. Four days, I gave her."  
"That's ridiculous, doctor. It's just a cut or two."  
"Molly works very hard, Mr Holmes," said Dr Wright, crossing his arms and looking right at Sherlock. "I think she deserves a few days to let her hand rest."  
"She likes being in the lab. You should have let her stay." Sherlock said, indignant.  
"The girl doesn't know moderation. She stays back so late sometimes just so she can do her own research _after_ she's cleared her daily paperwork. She's a diligent one. Foolishly diligent. But her work is remarkable."  
"The best." Sherlock replied automatically.  
"Well, I'm glad you appreciate our Molly."  
"Like I said, she is the best."

"She really is," said Dr Wright, looking up from his reports. "In fact, I had to refer to her dissertation the other day for a spot of research on a case. She made her name in the pathology world with that paper."  
"She did? What was her paper about?" Sherlock's curiosity was piqued.  
"Time-stamping death," replied Dr Wright. "She had been researching ways to calculate the different rates of decay of flesh, post-injury, pre-death, post death."  
"Interesting. Go on." Sherlock said. He was almost giddy from curiosity and pleased that his mind could focus on something else for a change.  
"This is particularly important research for cases of unnatural death, where severe injury, mutilation or dismemberment take place." Dr Wright began searching through a folder of his and found the chapter of Molly's paper.  
"I imagine so…" breathed Sherlock, as Dr Wright handed the papers to him.  
"In fact, our little Molly had to fly to Japan a couple of years ago to head a research team at a university assisting the local police. They had specially contacted her to assist in a particularly horrific mutilation case. Distributed body parts and all that serial killer jazz."  
"I remember her being away in Japan." Sherlock said as he flipped through the document. "She didn't tell me why she had gone though."  
"Why should she?" remarked Dr Wright.

Sherlock looked up at Dr Wright as the thought struck him. Yes, Molly had left for a whole month and he had had virtually no access to the morgue. Why didn't she tell him where she had gone? Didn't it matter to her? Then a more puzzling thought struck Sherlock. Why did it matter to him that she had left without informing him?

"So…did she, um, solve the case?" Sherlock asked, trying to change this new train of thought.  
"Of course." replied Dr Wright. "Because of Molly, they pieced the whole crime together, countering the entire alibi. Time of dismemberment, time of storage and time of death, all calculated to the very hour of the day."  
"Impressive." Sherlock said, in genuine awe.  
"That's our Molly." Dr Wright said, beaming.  
"Hmm, yes." Sherlock handed the papers back to Dr Wright and looked a little absentmindedly around the lab.

Dr Wright eyed Sherlock who still stood before him. He put Molly's paper back into the folder and looked back up at Sherlock.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr Holmes? I've already told you, Molly is not here…"  
"What's she working on, currently?" asked Sherlock. He couldn't help himself. Sherlock did always enjoy poking his nose around Molly's work and this whole new revelation of her brilliance tickled his curiosity. And also his fancy.  
"Well," sighed Dr Wright, "If you must know, Mr Holmes…"  
"I must."  
"Right, well, she's currently in the middle of a long and intricate report about a body that came in just before the weekend."  
"What's so long and intricate about this one?" asked Sherlock.  
"Here, you can read her preliminary analysis sent to me." Dr Wright said, handing the report to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the document greedily. These were the things he would gladly fill his brain with. As he read through the report, his eyes lit up in fascination over the brilliant analysis.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said Dr Wright, taking the report out from Sherlock's hands.  
"Very," Sherlock replied, the glint of admiration for Molly glowing in his eyes.  
"Who would have thought to link the engorged capillaries around the eyeball with high blood pressure medication?" Dr Wright remarked with a laugh." We thought the man had died of liver failure, but his liver was fine!"

Sherlock smiled knowingly and thought of all the times Molly had helped him with his own tricky experiments. It never failed to amaze him how she was always able to keep up and would spot anomalies, especially in their chemical analyses.

"I guess our Molly always knows where to look. Only she would have thought to examine his eyes." Dr Wright continued.

"Yes. It's noted here he wore vanity lenses daily for his job. Frequent contact lens use would deprive the eyes of oxygen, increasing capillary growth around the eyes to increase the intake of oxygenated blood. But if there was already a pre-existing condition of high blood pressure and a case of poorly-timed medication…brilliant." Sherlock said, clasping his hands together.

Dr Wright laughed and straightened his stack of reports.

"I can see why you like working with her."  
"The best with the best, doctor." Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Anyway," said Dr Wright, "What did you want Molly for? Can I take a message?"  
"Oh, it's nothing. Thank you, doctor."  
"All right then, have a good day, Mr Holmes."  
"Same to you."

As Sherlock headed for the door, his hand paused on the door handle and turned back to look at Dr Wright. The Head of Pathology, who had resumed working on his reports, looked up quizzically at the detective.

"Dr Wright?" said Sherlock.  
"Yes, Mr Holmes?" a puzzled Dr Wright replied.  
"Could I take a look at those eyeballs?"  
"No, you may not!" exclaimed Dr Wright with a laugh. "Now, be off or I shall have to have you escorted out."  
"It was worth a try." Sherlock remarked with a smile, waving goodbye to Dr Wright.

Along a pristine white corridor lined with tall glass windows, an impeccably dressed Evelyn Lancaster led a group of interested investors on a tour of St. Bart's. Her sharp black heels clicked confidently against the ground she walked on, smoothly and wittily wooing the group of men and women who represented some of the biggest companies in the country.

"These glass windows here have all been fitted with the latest state-of-the-art eco-technology to capture all this sunlight we have here into usable energy." Evelyn explained eloquently to her group of guests. "We firmly believe in keeping the hospital as up-to-date as possible with being energy-efficient, a goal which I'm sure aligns very closely with your own companies."

The investors nodded, impressed. Some took closer looks at the actual window frame where Evelyn was very happy to point out the gadgetry and wiring behind these state-of-the-art windows. The murmuring group of people was interrupted by the sounds of brisk footsteps as Sherlock Holmes appeared, walking down the very same corridor.

When Evelyn looked up, the detective was striding towards her with his head buried in checking his mobile phone. He was oblivious that she was there. Unable to resist, she called out to him.

"Mr Holmes…"

Sherlock stopped when the unpleasantly familiar voice called out his name. He paused in his steps and lifted his eyes only to see her face right before him. As quickly as he had seen her, he averted his gaze to study the group that surrounded her.

"Ah, an investor's tour." Sherlock remarked, nodding his head politely at the group. His eyes glazed over Evelyn's face as he continued to address the group. "This is a fine establishment. And it will do you well to give us your money to keep it going. Your generosity is appreciated. Good afternoon."

The investors stared wide-eyed at Sherlock's brazen little request as he gave them a smirk and began to walk away. Evelyn, who had clearly been ignored, was not letting herself be ignored.

"Mr Holmes is a frequent presence here at St. Bart's." Evelyn began. "Our hospital is proud to be a resource for a brilliant mind as Mr Holmes. Where have you just come from, Mr Holmes?"

Stopping again in his tracks, Sherlock turned slowly to look at her. The group had their faces turned towards him, eagerly awaiting his response.

"Pathology." Sherlock replied. The moment he said it, a strange sinking feeling of regret came over him.  
"Pathology? Oh." Evelyn replied, forcing a smile upon her face. "A case with Ms Hooper… perhaps?"  
"No," Sherlock answered, carefully this time. "I went to see Dr Wright about a body."  
"You're lying…" Evelyn whispered. The investors closer to her turned to her and frowned, puzzled.  
"Good day, Ms Lancaster." Sherlock said, his eyes firmly boring into her, before finally turning around and walking away from her.

As he walked away, Evelyn took a slow, deep breath, mustered a beautiful smile and turned to face her guests.

"I believe this is a good time to pay a visit to our excellent, _excellent_ pathology lab." Evelyn began. "There is much there for us to discover, I'm sure."

Sherlock strode out of the St. Bart's doors and studied the streets before him. His brief moment with Evelyn was immediately dropped from his mind. Instead, he shut his eyes to remember Molly's address and thought about her commute back home.

"This way…" he told himself, as he began walking.

Molly couldn't have been far as she had only just left a little before Sherlock had shown up in front of Dr Wright. He found himself walking faster and faster, wanting to find her as soon as possible. He scanned all the heads that bobbed in front of him.

"Ponytail too short, that hair is far too dry, wrong shade of auburn, her ears don't stick out so much, she would never wear a scarf in that shade…" murmured Sherlock to himself as he wove through the crowds. He was hoping she would still be within a reasonable radius of the hospital. Quickening his pace, Sherlock hurried to find his best pathologist at St. Bart's.

"There she is…" Sherlock exclaimed as he ran towards a familiar, swishing ponytail. As he got closer, he realised it wasn't Molly and abruptly stopped in his tracks. As he skidded to a halt, he bumped into a fellow pedestrian and fell over.

"I am so sorry!" exclaimed the apologetic housewife who had collided into him.  
"It's fine," said Sherlock, who found himself sitting on the pavement in front of a newsagents. "Are you hurt?" asked the housewife who was deeply worried.  
"I told you, it's fine…" said Sherlock as he tried to get up.

"Sherlock?" came a familiar voice. He turned his head and saw the face he had been trying to find all morning.  
"Molly," he said with a half-smile on his face.  
"Are you all right?" she asked, worried. She had just stepped out of the newsagents when she saw the whole incident.  
"Yes, yes…"  
"Here, let me help you…it's all right, ma'am, he's my friend, I've got him." Said Molly to the lady as she helped Sherlock up.

When Sherlock got up, he dusted himself up and cricked his neck. Molly stood in front of his towering frame and just watched him.

"You sure you're okay? Didn't bruise or graze yourself, did you?" asked Molly quietly.  
"I'm fine, Molly." Sherlock replied. "What's happened to you?"  
"What do you mean, what's happened to me?" she asked.  
"I mean…how's your hand?"  
"It's…fine. Just a bit messy." she said, holding her bandaged hand up.  
"Hmm, I see."

The two of them stood there, in the middle of the pavement, outside the newsagents. Molly held on to her shopping bag tightly as her eyes darted around, not knowing where to look, as was always the case when Sherlock spoke with her. Sherlock looked down at her and realised for the first time how virtually impossible it was to catch her eye.

"So, um…I'm just going to go then, seeing as you're all right. Bye." Molly said before hurrying off.  
"Molly…" Sherlock called, as he went after her.

Molly turned around, surprised he called out after her.

"Molly…" Sherlock said, a little unsure of what to say.  
"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked, looking at him quizzically.

"Would you like to have coffee, Molly?" said Sherlock, with a smile on his face.

There was silence. Sherlock looked at Molly and Molly, again, did not quite know where to look. This was all very confusing to Molly. Perhaps she had hit her head somewhere and didn't know it. Needless to say, the memory of the gala night remained fresh. She was now doubly wary of him. He would always have a little place in Molly's heart, but she knew now how terribly unpredictable and uncaring he really was.

"I don't drink coffee." Molly replied stoically.  
"Well, I didn't mean coffee literally…"  
"Oh!" Molly exclaimed bitterly, "So you _do_ know what I mean when I ask _you_ for coffee? Good, good, I'm glad you do…" She laughed softly and shook her heard. Historic embarrassment came rushing back in a flood to Molly. Embarrassment from all the times he had casually turned her question around to result in a solitary mug of coffee for himself.

"So, now that you've had your fun. I'm just…going to go." said Molly, smiling bitterly at Sherlock before turning on her heels to head home.  
"Molly," Sherlock said, stopping her as he grabbed her by her sleeve.  
"What?" she replied, not turning to look at him.  
"I just wanted to apologise." Sherlock said, finally. There was a streak of genuine tenderness in his voice. "And I shouldn't have…asked you that way, using that phrase. I could have been kinder."  
"Yes, you certainly could have." Molly said, turning to face him finally as his hand slipped away from her.  
"I just…didn't know how to ask for a moment to apologise." Sherlock confessed.  
"You could have just said it, Sherlock."  
"Yes, I know now." Sherlock said quietly.

Again, the two of them were standing before each other in silence on the street. Sherlock's eyes looked warily at Molly as Molly lifted her head to look properly at him.

"Look at you," she said, with a sigh as she briefly touched her fingers to his hand, "You_ have_grazed your hand."  
"It's nothing. Especially compared to yours." Sherlock replied. His meekness surprised Molly and it softened her anger a little.  
"Next time you want to apologise, Sherlock," said Molly to the detective, "Just apologise."  
"I'll remember." he said with a small smile.  
"Right," said Molly, "I guess an apology from you is worth hearing." Sherlock laughed, and so did Molly.  
"I have a favourite tea place, two streets down, just at the corner." Molly said, her eyes lighting up beautifully as they always did.  
"Would you like to have tea, Sherlock?" she asked, looking right at him.

"Yes, Molly," replied the detective, taking her shopping bag from her, "I would."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Nothing exciting, sorry. _  
_Just one of those transitional (but crucial) chapters._  
_Thank you for your patience with this series._  
_And of course for all your support and reviews._  
_I love all your insights! x_

__After a quiet but strangely comfortable walk, the pair found themselves outside Molly's favourite tea shop. It was a small establishment with two businesses. You could get yourself a fantastic blend of tea, or a lovely bouquet of flowers. It was both a tea shop and a florist's. When they stepped in, the shop-owner, Terence, recognised Molly immediately and went up to greet her. He ushered the pair personally to their seats and left them with two menus.

"They do _lovely_ teas here, Sherlock." Molly exclaimed, her eyes wandering around the shop in delight. "I love all their different blends of tea. Some of them smell so beautiful I just want to use them as potpourri sometimes. They just have _so many_ varieties I could almost cry from how…" Molly stopped herself when she realised she was just rambling about her love for tea to Sherlock. He stared at her bemused. And silent, as always.

"Oh, um, they don't serve coffee here, I'm afraid. But I'll get Terence to make you one." Molly said to Sherlock.  
"I should like that, Molly. Thank you." Sherlock replied, shutting the menu and putting it away.

Molly waved Terence over and began to place their orders.

"What'll it be Molly?" asked Terence cheerfully.  
"I'll get my usual rose and vanilla tea, Terence. Thanks."  
"And for your friend?" he asked, giving her a wink.  
"Oh…um…could you just make him a black coffee? With sugar, please."  
"No problem. Be right back." Terence jotted it all down and walked back to the counter.

"What was that wink for?" Sherlock asked.  
"Oh…nothing." Molly answered.  
"It wasn't some, socially inappropriate gesture, I hope?"  
"Oh, no, no!" Molly exclaimed, half amused. "Nothing of that sort."  
"Then?"  
"It's just…" Molly didn't quite know how to answer. "I guess…it's because I'm just..usually here by myself."  
"Hmm…I see."

They sat in silence for a while. Molly stared awkwardly at everything around except Sherlock. She had even forgotten what they had come here for and that he was supposed to be apologising to her. Sherlock kept himself busy with the occasional text message and studying the list of teas and their Latin names. It seemed he had forgotten as well.

Soon, Terence arrived with their drinks. He placed a little glass teapot down with a matching glass teacup and saucer. The belly of the teapot had little rose buds swirling around in it. He then placed Sherlock's coffee before him and left them. Just as Sherlock brought the steaming cup of black coffee to his lips, Molly exclaimed.

"Oh, wait…"  
"What's the matter?" he asked, the cup hovering in front of his lips.  
"He forgot the sugar."  
"The sugar? How can you tell?" Sherlock asked, peering into the black liquid.

Molly laughed as Sherlock continued to frown at his coffee, then at her.

"I suppose, you've always had coffee made for you…domestically…"  
"Domestically?"  
"I mean to say…not all coffees come with, you know, your desired amount of sugar already stirred and blended inside."  
"Oh…"  
"In…places like these…they're served separately." Molly explained, waving Terence over again.

"Yes, dear?" Terence asked.  
"Could we get a pot of sugar please?"

Terence was soon back with a little porcelain bowl of sugar cubes. Molly picked up the pair of tongs that came with it and put two sugars into Sherlock's coffee.

"There. Now it's complete." She said, smiling.  
"Thank you." Sherlock said, thoughtful.

They then quietly sipped their drinks, not a single word exchanged.

"You're unusually quiet, Molly." Sherlock remarked.  
"I remembered not to make conversation around you." Molly replied swiftly.

Her reaction surprised him. It was fluent, almost confident.

"You know, Molly…" Sherlock began.  
"Yes?"  
"If I'm such unpleasant company, why do you still bother with me?"  
"That's because…" Molly paused to sip her tea, "I still enjoy your company."  
"Why would you?" Sherlock was baffled. There was no logic to this.  
"I don't know." Molly shrugged. "Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps."  
"Come again?" Sherlock looked at her, a little shocked.  
"Sorry…" Molly laughed quietly, "That was a bad joke. Sorry."  
"No…" Sherlock replied, "It was quite a good one, actually."  
"Well then, I guess there's a first for everything."

Sherlock finished his last mouthful coffee as Molly continued to slowly sip her tea.

"Speaking of firsts, Molly."  
"Yes?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and clasped his hands before him.

"I did say I wanted to apologise."  
"Yes, you did." Molly answered, remembering.  
"So…" Sherlock took a deep breath, "I am sorry, Molly. For everything."  
"Wow…" Molly whispered.  
"What?"  
"I didn't think you were going to do it."  
"You didn't?"  
"No, Sherlock, I really didn't." she said, looking up at him. "Because I don't think you're capable of it."  
"I…see." Sherlock replied, frowning.  
"Thank you for trying, though." Molly said, giving him a reassuring smile. "I appreciate it."

Sherlock studied her smile but could not understand it. He did not understand the measure of comfort it brought to him knowing that his apology had led to this smile. Sherlock realised that because he had not known what it meant to apologise, he did not know what it meant to be forgiven. What really struck him was how much it _felt_ to know one was forgiven. But Molly hadn't quite forgiven him. She didn't believe his apology, because she couldn't.

"Right." said Molly, "Your coffee's done, my tea's finished…I suppose, it's time to go."  
"Let me get this."  
"Of course." Molly couldn't help but smile. "Thank you."

When they stepped out of the tea shop, Molly looked up at Sherlock, a warm smile on her face. Molly was never without a smile, really. That was the depth of her sweetness. For the first time, Sherlock made note of this side of her. Molly was always nervous, stammering, awkward and made terrible jokes. But she was always lovely. This curious new element that now presented itself to Sherlock baffled him. It baffled him not because he never _knew_ it existed, but because it made him _feel_.

"Do you know your way home?" asked Sherlock, in uncharacteristic absentmindedness.  
"Of course I do, Sherlock." Molly said with a laugh, "Why wouldn't I?"  
"I meant to say, get home safe."  
"Thanks. You too."

Molly turned and began her walk home. Sherlock remained where he was, watching her walk away, her light, auburn ponytail swaying with her rhythm. Sherlock realised Molly hadn't forgiven him. She had only thanked him for trying. The minute ache it brought him was unfamiliar. He forced it out of his mind and quickly turned away and headed back to Baker Street.

-

Dr Wright was having a small briefing with his team of pathologists, discussing the week's roster since Molly had been sent home. As he was going through the adjusted schedule, there came a knock on the lab door when a group of very smartly dressed people let themselves in.

"Good afternoon, Dr Wright," Evelyn chimed.  
"Ms Lancaster, what brings you here to our lab?"  
"Well, I've got some very important guests with me who are eager to learn more about this fine establishment." she turned to lavish a smile upon her guests, "So we're here to visit, a hospital tour, if you will."  
"Well, you are all most welcome." said Dr Wright, addressing the rest of the group.  
"And who is this bright, _promising_-looking group of young men and women?" asked Evelyn as her eyes scanned the pathology team. She immediately realised that Molly was absent.  
"They are our various specialists, forensic assistants, all part of our pathology department." answered Dr Wright, clearly very proud of his department.  
"Wonderful." praised Evelyn in her silkiest voice. "Perhaps one of your bright stars could show us what your work involves?" said Evelyn.  
"Of course. Let's see, George, why don't you take the lead? Show them the new equipment and our current samples being processed. That's quite something." said Dr Wright.  
"Splendid. Thank you so much, Dr Wright."

As George and another colleague started the tour, Evelyn lingered behind the group and went up to Dr Wright who had returned to his desk.

"Hello Dr Wright." she said, sitting herself down across from him.  
"What else can I do for you, Ms Lancaster?"  
"Oh, I just thought we could have a little chat."  
"Certainly. What about?" he asked.  
"Tell me about your team, Dr Wright. They all look so clever. It's no wonder we've got ourselves a bit of a reputation haven't we?"  
"We certainly have made a name for ourselves, yes." Dr Wright said, beaming.  
"So," Evelyn leaned towards the desk, "Tell me about these young ones then."

Dr Wright listed everyone on his department, their academic backgrounds, portfolios, everything. When it came to Molly, Evelyn exclaimed.

"Oh! Molly Hooper, you mean?" she asked, feigning excitement.  
"Yes, that's right. Do you know her?" asked Dr Wright.  
"Well, I saw her briefly at the gala…"  
"Of course, of course…"  
"I don't see her today, though. Where is she?" asked Evelyn.  
"I gave her time off till Friday. Poor girl had her hand cut up quite seriously."  
"Oh, the poor thing." Evelyn murmured, remembering the incident.  
"She could certainly use the break. She works so hard."  
"She _does_ look such a bright, young thing." Evelyn remarked with admiration.  
"She definitely is. One of our best." said Dr Wright, nodding his head.  
"Wonderful." Evelyn said, lying through her teeth.

Out of the corner of her eye, Evelyn could see the lab tour was going to take some time, which was exactly what she had hoped for.

"Now, Dr Wright, tell me _all_ about her." said Evelyn, her perfectly lined eyes glowing menacingly.

-

When Molly reached her flat, she placed her shopping back down and flopped down on the sofa. She thought back on her afternoon with Sherlock, their time at the tea shop and his apology. Shaking her head, she laughed quietly to herself.

"Oh, you silly girl." she whispered to herself, "He probably doesn't even know what he was apologising for. I bet John just made him do it."

His face swam back into her memory as she tried to read _his_ expressions. She tried to recall what he looked like when he was apologising. No, he might have been sincere, but if it meant nothing to him, what weight did the apology have? Molly shut her eyes and rubbed her temples. There was no point thinking about this. Yes, she was going to put it out of her mind, the whole thing, everything. She was probably never going to forgive, but she could forget. Molly decided she was going to forget the way he had cut her, how it meant nothing to him that he had hurt her and how he had never seen the need to apologise. Molly meant nothing to him and therefore, he was now going to mean nothing to her.

"I love you, Sherlock," she confessed to herself, "but I musn't."

With her new found resolution, Molly relaxed a little and realised how tired she was from her emotionally charged day. Before she knew it, Molly drifted off to sleep on her couch, curled up underneath her cardigan. Her mind had emptied of Sherlock, but as for her heart, it would probably take a little while more.

-

"Thank you so much, Dr Wright." Evelyn said, satisfied with everything he had told her.  
"You're most welcome, Ms Lancaster. It's nice to see you take interest in our staff."  
"Oh, of course. She sounds absolutely brilliant. St. Bart's is lucky to have her."  
"We certainly are, Ms Lancaster." Dr Wright remarked gratefully.  
"Such a lovely character too. She sounds like the sweetest thing."  
"No complaints." Dr Wright said, "A most excellent colleague."  
"It's been wonderful hearing about her, Dr Wright."

The tour of the lab came to a close and Dr Wright took this opportunity to answer any questions the investors might have had. Evelyn excused herself and stepped outside the lab. Taking her mobile phone, Evelyn began to search for a contact and started to type out a long message.

"Time to show our appreciation, Molly Hooper." she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Thank you to all who have been so patient with me._  
_I'm headed to Japan for a week and a half, _  
_so I thought I'd do up a nice, long chapter with lots of details while I'm away._  
_I have taken a long time on this chapter and I hope it's been worth it. _  
_For those who've been following and reviewing, thank you so so much. _  
_Your insights are always incredible! x_

When Molly stirred awake from her accidental nap on the sofa, it was just past dinnertime.

"God…it's 8pm?" she murmured sleepily, checking her watch.

After a big stretch, Molly slowly peeled herself off the sofa, now warm and cosy from her having laid there all afternoon. She quickly popped into her kitchen and whipped up a quick salad for dinner from what few vegetables she had left in her fridge. Just as she was settling down to dinner, she heard rapid little knocks at her door and her name being called out.

"Molly Hooper? Miss Molly Hooper? Hello?" came the voice. It sounded like a young male.  
"Um…coming, coming…" she replied, a little stunned. Molly hurriedly made her way to the door but opened it warily by just a tiny gap.

"Yes?" she asked the young man at the door. He had on a dark blue cap with his company logo on it and was neatly dressed in a white polo t-shirt, a brown sweater with the same logo and dark jeans.  
"I've got an express delivery for a Miss Molly Hooper?" he said politely.  
"_Express_ delivery?" she asked, puzzled.  
"Yes, express. Same-day delivery. Ordered today, dispatched today."  
"I see. And who is it from?"  
"You'll have to read the card, miss. I'm just the delivery boy."  
"Right…do I have to sign for…"  
"Yes, if you could just sign here…" he said, slipping a piece of paper to her through the little gap.

Signing it swiftly, Molly opened the door a little wider as the young man handed her a lovely basket adorned with flowers and colourful packets of…something. A small envelope was nestled nicely in between the lovely floral arrangement.

"Have a good evening, miss." said the nice lad before turning to leave.  
"Th-thanks…" Molly replied quietly, shutting her door.

The basket was definitely a sight to behold. It had a multitude of flowers that ran from light coral pinks to deep indigo. In the centre of the basket lay a nicely wrapped bundle of what looked like colourful little sachets. Molly immediately recognised it as tea, and not just any tea. It was from her favourite tea place, the place that sold artisan teas and that was also a florists.

"Wow…" she whispered, pulling the sachets out, "It's got _every_ flavour…"

She couldn't help but feel a little bit excited. She opened the bag and spilled the contents out on her dining table and her eyes widened as she took in the array of flavours before her.

"It's the _whole_ collection…" she murmured to herself. Molly was this close to doing a little dance of joy. This was proving a wonderful little surprise from all the recent doldrums she was going through. Certainly, this was something Molly had always wanted. Her obsession with the lovely teas at the shop was probably going to reach a new high now that the entire collection had been given to her.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that she had just been at the tea place with Sherlock. Not only that, he had been trying to apologise. She sat down calmly and tried to quiet the foolish, growing notion in her heart that possibly, just possibly, he was still trying to apologise. After all, she hadn't quite accepted his apology. In all fairness, there had been no real apology to accept. There was no way Sherlock could have been sincere about something as trivial as an apology. And this is where she knew her heart was playing a cruel trick on her. There was no way he would apologise so meaningfully, if he was to attempt a second apology at all. Yet, Molly wanted to believe this tiny, shred of possibility.

"There was a card…" she muttered to herself, frantically fumbling for the basket as her fingers found the envelope in the centre.

Molly ripped the envelope a little too quickly, just short of getting a paper cut. She pulled out a pretty, store-bought card that had a painting of a little bouquet of flowers on the front. Opening the card, she saw three rows of neat handwriting in black ink. Molly realised she'd never really seen Sherlock's writing. He'd scribble into a notepad on occasion or make little notes when he was at the microscope, but she had never noticed his writing.

The card had a simple message. It read:

_Dear Molly,_

_Get well soon._

_Hope you enjoy the tea._

Of course he wouldn't sign it. He wouldn't even leave his initials. Molly laughed sadly and slipped the card back into the envelope.

"Well…" she said, leaning resigned against her chair, "It's still not an apology. But at least I've got tea."

Smiling to herself, she rummaged through the sachets, found a flavour she wanted and went off to make herself a well-deserved pot of tea to unwind with after dinner.

-

After Sherlock's afternoon with Molly, he had returned home, thoughtful but resentful. He resented the tiny, nagging feeling that tugged at, god forbid, his heart. By the time he stepped through the doors of 221B, he had resolved not to think about Molly anymore. He had apologised, as John had foolishly demanded, and it was now out of the way. There were far more important and useful things that he could occupy himself with.

However, he found the subsequent days a little tougher than usual. No deserving cases had presented themselves. Despite tapping into Lestrade's work phone and hacking into his emails, he still found nothing interesting to work on. Sherlock had no choice but to resort to experiments to cure his boredom, much to John's dismay. There were afternoons where John would find holes in the table from hydrochloric acid and ammonia soaked fabric dangling from the ceiling. Needless to say, John found himself spending a lot more time outside the flat, or finding refuge in Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

On Friday afternoon, John had come back from an errand and reluctantly headed into the kitchen, just to keep tabs on Sherlock. As usual, something that _wasn't_ food was boiling away on the stove and John had learnt never to look inside the toaster, especially when black smoke seemed to rise from it.

"Acids are a funny thing. And such an easy thing to create." Sherlock began. "Ah, the power of corrosion!" With a pair of tweezers, he lifted up what was left of the cutlery as John took in the sight of a melted fork.

Sighing, John sat himself in his usual armchair, away from Sherlock's makeshift laboratory.

"I see we're still at science class," John began.  
"Mmm…" Sherlock was concentrating as he carefully dispensed two drops of some unknown liquid onto another poor fork, resulting in a hissing sound. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock chuckled delightedly to himself.  
"Have there really been no cases?" asked John.  
"None at all."  
"You mean none that tickled your fancy?"  
"Just a few robberies…there was that drowning in the lake…all too obvious."  
"Obvious… right." John replied with a smirk. "When do you think we can get the kitchen back to being, you know, a proper kitchen?"  
"Oh, who knows, who knows…" murmured the detective, who lifted a beaker to the light, inspecting its contents.  
"God, this is hopeless…" John whispered, rubbing his forehead.  
"It _is_ hopeless…." Sherlock continued, "_This_ formula just isn't working…"  
"Well, I'm just glad…" John said, preparing to leave, "That there are no corpses or limbs about the flat. I guess that's always something to be grateful for, when I can be grateful for it."

"Oh," said Sherlock, looking up with a start.  
"What?"  
"What day is today, John?"  
"Uh, it's a Friday."  
"Friday." Sherlock whispered before exclaiming again, "Friday!"

With a loud clatter, Sherlock abandoned his science experiment and marched into his room to get his coat and scarf.

"Where are you going?" asked John.  
"To St. Bart's."  
"Should I ask why?"  
"It's Friday."  
"And…what's that got to do with Bart's?"  
"Molly."  
"Molly?" John's eyebrows lifted in surprise.  
"Yes," said the detective with a sly smile, "She's back from medical leave and I need to look at some eyeballs."

-

The lab was quiet when Sherlock barged in, swinging the doors open again like he had before. Dr Wright looked up at Sherlock, startled.

"Can I help you, Mr Holmes?"  
"Yes, I'm here to see Molly."  
"Molly…" Dr Wright looked around and continued, surprised,"…is not in today."  
"What do you mean she's not in?" asked Sherlock.  
"Well, she's…not. I know she's supposed to be back today," answered Dr Wright. "And usually she'd leave a note if she can't make it in."  
"You mean to say," Sherlock stared hard at Dr Wright, "that you don't know why she's not here?"  
"Maybe she needed more rest, Mr Holmes." Said Dr Wright, "So I'm not too bothered if she takes one extra day off. Like I said, that girl does work too hard."  
"But – never mind," Sherlock muttered.  
"Look, I'm sure she'll phone in sooner or later." Dr Wright remarked, as though placating Sherlock. "And if she does, I'll be sure to call you."

Sherlock frowned and was displeased. This was not like he had planned. Molly was supposed to be in and she would be there and he would ask her about the case she was writing up and ask to see those eyeballs. Now, none of this could happen because Molly was absent. In fact, and this is where Sherlock felt his mind race, Molly was _missing_.

"Something's not right…" he muttered to himself.  
"Mr Holmes?"  
"Good day, Dr Wright," said Sherlock as he turned swiftly on his heels and bolted out of the lab.

-

When he reached Molly's flat, Sherlock raced up the stairs that led to her door. He knocked on it rapidly and craned his neck to hear her response. There was none.

"Molly!" he bellowed through the door.

In his blood, the brilliant detective was certain something was terribly wrong. He knocked rapidly again, rapping his knuckles hard against the wood.

"Molly." his voice weakened just slightly. Why wasn't she responding?

He needed to get into the flat, fast. Could he do it without breaking in? Sherlock surveyed the door, its frame and the immediate area surround him. His bright, inquisitive eyes darted from element to element, from the doorknob, to the ratty doormat to the dying cactus plant by the door. When he looked up, he noticed a wind chime. No wind would ever come through this narrow stairway for the wind chime to make even the slightest whistle. Yet, it hung proudly by the doorframe. Sherlock stared at the odd little wind chime with a body of frosted blown glass and tiny brass chimes hanging off it. A peculiar shadow in the hollow, frosted bubble caught Sherlock's eye. He knew what it was immediately and smirked.

"She really is a clever girl," he whispered to himself.

Reaching into the body of the chime, Sherlock pulled out what was clearly Molly's spare key and proceeded to unlock her door. When he stepped in, the first thing that struck him was how awfully cold it felt. The flat was dead quiet. When he stepped in, he reached to touch the first radiator he could see, the one in the sitting room. The metal was a steely cold. It hadn't been on for some time. Four days to be exact.

Her bedroom door was ajar but the lights were off. It didn't seem like she was inside. When he walked across to the kitchen, the dining table adorned with scattered tea sachets greeted him. Picking one of the sachets up, Sherlock read the label, then scoffed. Her childlike fascination with tea was something he would never comprehend. He saw that one sachet had been opened, its packet left on the dining table.

"That's a bit much, isn't it, Molly? Preserving the package too?" he muttered to himself as he dropped the sachet he was holding back into its basket.

When he walked into the kitchen, Sherlock noticed there were two more sachets of tea that had been opened with their empty packets left on the counter. He studied the kitchen and found it untouched for sometime too. All the cutlery was bone dry and the tiniest traces of dust had begun to settle on some of the cupboards' doorknobs. From their one-sided conversations at the lab, Sherlock knew Molly enjoyed cooking and used her kitchen as often as she could find time to. The state of the kitchen did not align with the stories she told him.

All of a sudden, Sherlock heard a crash and a low thud come from outside. Rushing out of the kitchen, he glanced around frantically but saw no one. The sitting room was as it was, cold and unoccupied. His eyes carefully scanned the floor for what might have dropped or fallen when his gaze finally led him to the doorway to Molly's room. And when he saw what lay before him, the unshakeable Sherlock Holmes with nerves of steel felt himself tremble in his boots and his chest cave in with panic.

Peeking out of the doorway was a single, pale hand and the wispy ends of an auburn ponytail. Even without a scalpel in it, Sherlock recognised that hand. He knelt by the doorway and saw, to his horror, Molly collapsed and virtually unconscious on the floor. The room was dark and had the horrible stench of sick. Sherlock stepped carefully over Molly to open the curtains. As sunlight filled the room, Sherlock's eyes filled with disbelief as he saw the limp figure of Molly Hooper sprawled lifeless before him. Her pale hands stretched in front of her, as though she had been crawling or crying for help. The source of the crash had been Molly's mug and a few other things that she had swept off her side table in her attempt to get up. Puddles of dried sick spotted the room and her bed.

"Molly…Molly!" Sherlock exclaimed, scooping her up from the ground and propping her against him as he knelt beside her.

Her eyes could barely open and her skin looked gray and ill. All of her weight rested itself on Sherlock as Molly had not an ounce of strength left in her weak, sick body. She lay against him, as though she were dead.

"Molly? Say something!" Sherlock was almost shouting as he touched his hand to her cold cheek. He then quickly pressed his fingers to her neck to feel for a pulse. Sherlock had never been more relieved to find one, however weak a pulse it was. She was alive, but very ill. He wanted very much to find out what had caused this. There were so many possible clues and the theories all rushed together in his head. But Sherlock knew Molly's condition was far too grievous to stall for any sort of deduction.

_Is this what caring feels like? Blind panic?_ thought Sherlock to himself. _Definitely a disadvantage_.

With Molly still on his lap, Sherlock reached for his mobile phone and called John.

"Hello?"  
"John, I need you to get to Molly's flat now."  
"Molly's flat? I thought you were at Bart's?"  
"No time for questions, John. Get. Here. _Now_."

At that moment, Sherlock felt Molly twitch in his arms as she jerked forward and threw up violently again.

"Did someone just _vomit_?" asked John incredulously on the phone.  
"Yes. That was Molly. That's why you need to _hurry_."  
"Molly? Wha-…Okay, Sherlock, get her to a hospital and I will meet you there."  
"Fine."

Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket and gently lay Molly back on the floor. There was not a sound from her for she could barely manage a whimper. Apart from the weak pulse and the sudden jerk, she could have passed for a corpse. Sherlock quickly headed to her bathroom and found the first towel he could find, quickly wiping her face and hands clean as best as he could. Then, with no effort whatsoever, Sherlock scooped Molly up and raced out of her flat to get them a cab to Bart's.

In the cab, Sherlock stared down at Molly and studied her symptoms. She lay horizontally along the seat, with her head propped up on Sherlock's lap. What had made his pathologist so sick? Apart from the obvious paleness, the cold touch of her skin and the copious amounts of vomiting, Molly had also lost a bit of weight. It was clear she had not eaten since she got sick from whatever it was that ailed her. Then, a thought struck Sherlock. The only trace of activity had been the opened tea sachets and the fact that her mug was by her bedside. He shut his eyes to recall the spilt mug in her room and his crystal clear memory recalled the little paper tab found at the ends tea bags, clinging to the side of the mug.

_It was the tea, you stupid girl, _he thought angrily.

He regretted not taking a sample of the tea with him to examine further. But he could always pop around later to get it. But then, Sherlock had a better idea.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am just getting my coat. I am leaving the flat in about three seconds…"  
"No, John, listen. I need you to go to Molly's flat."  
"I told you, take her to Bart's!"  
"We're already en route." Sherlock replied. "But I need you to go to her flat."  
"There'd better be a good reason for this, Sherlock."  
"Yes, there is." Sherlock said, his voice steady. "Now I need you to go into her flat…I didn't have time to lock it, and when you walk in you should see packets of tea on the dining table. I need you to get me some of those tea bags and bring them to me."

John, for Molly's sake, agreed to this strange request and made the detour. For now, Sherlock's priority was to get Molly to hospital. The thought of not having his pathologist around was unacceptable to Sherlock. As far as he was concerned, Molly was indispensable. And whatever, or whoever it was, that tried to dispense of her, Sherlock was going to ensure never attempted it again.

—

"I got here as soon as I could." John said, panting slightly. "How is she?"  
"Stable. Sleeping."

Sherlock was standing silently by the foot of Molly's bed and the only sounds filling the room were the slow beeps and clicks of the hospital equipment that surrounded her.

"Did you get what I asked for?"  
"Yes…yes, here it is…" said John, reaching into his pocket.

He handed the colourful packets of tea and placed them in Sherlock's outstretched hand.

"What do you think happened?" asked John, looking up at his towering friend who had his eyes fixed on Molly's sleeping figure.  
"Molly's been poisoned."  
"What?"  
"She was virtually unconscious when I found her, John. Massively dehydrated after all that vomiting. Pale as a corpse with a pulse so weak you could run a marathon between the beats."  
"Did you mean food poisoning?"  
"No, John," Sherlock turned his head slowly to face John, "Molly's been poisoned."  
"How can you tell?"  
"Her body was limp but her fingers and toes were all clenched. Even her calf muscles were stiff, almost frozen. Signs of a seizure."  
"A seizure?"  
"Yes, several, in fact. And seizures are no ordinary symptom for a little stomach malaise. Neither is the level of unconsciousness in which I had found her."  
"Right." said John, crossing his arms. He walked over to Molly's bedside and sighed.

"So, how many already?" asked John, turning back to look at Sherlock.  
"Three ideas, John. Three." answered Sherlock, his fingers clenching slightly around the packets of tea he held.

Sherlock contemplated moving a bit closer to Molly, just to look at her once more. But, he hesitated. There was something grave about this whole situation and this was no time to get sentimental. Sherlock had a sinking feeling that there was something far more deadly ahead, than the possibly poisonous culprits he had grasped in his hand. He wanted to speak to her, to ask her something, anything.

But first, Sherlock needed to go to the lab.

-

It was nearing the end of a Friday workday when there came a quiet knock on Dr Wright's office door. After spending his morning in the lab, he had retreated to his office to work on some hospital administrative matters. Before he could say, _come in_, the door creaked open and the perfect, porcelain face of Evelyn Lancaster peeked coyly in.

"I'm sorry, Dr Wright, I wasn't interrupting anything, I hope?"  
"No, no, not in the least. Please, have a seat."  
"Thank you," said Evelyn as she shut the door quietly behind her and glided to her seat.  
"How has your team been this week, doctor?"  
"We've been doing fine Ms Lancaster, just a little busy but we're all right."  
"Oh? Busy with what?"  
"Well, the same old, but you know, since Molly's been away this week we've definitely been a little shorthanded."  
"I see…" Evelyn bit her lip to avoid the little smile that tried to creep out. "But I mean, it's Friday today, isn't it? You told me she'd be back today and the workloads would all be back to normal."  
"Well, she didn't show up today. And I do trust Molly, so I thought maybe she needed an extra day of rest…."  
"Good, good, that's good…I mean," Evelyn caught herself just in time, "good of you to, you know, trust her." Evelyn replied carefully.  
"Our Molly's very responsible…"  
"Well," said Evelyn, rising from her seat, "I guess you'll hear from her eventually. I'm sure she's…fine. Just fine."  
"Well that's the thing, Ms Lancaster, she isn't fine. Just got word from one of the nurses here that she's been warded."  
"Excuse me?" Evelyn asked, blinking hard.  
"Yes, I was told she was more sick than we'd ever imagined. No wonder she couldn't call."  
"She's alive?" Evelyn whispered carelessly.  
"What do you mean, she's alive?" asked Dr Wright, "Of course, she is. She's just been taken ill."

Evelyn was livid at the news, but managed to keep her cool.

"That's…terrible news, doctor." Evelyn frowned in perfectly false concern.  
"I know. I might pop around to see how she is later. Once I get these logs done."  
"Yes, yes, I might do that too…"  
"That's very kind of you, Ms Lancaster. It's not often that board members bother to care about the staff working on the ground."  
"I do my best," said with Evelyn with a smile.

When she left the office, Evelyn stomped down the corridor so hard her high heels were dangerously close to snapping.

"I guess another _Get Well_ card is in order then, for _our_ Molly…" she muttered between gritted teeth.

—

Sherlock had spent all afternoon at the lab. The contents of the various tea bags had been spilled out into little Petri dishes and test-tubes. He knew what sort of drug he was looking for, he just didn't know what it was specifically and how it got there. Based on Molly's sluggishness and corpse-like state of consciousness, he knew it was some sort of intoxicant, but what sort? There were actual tea leaves in the tea bag, which meant the intoxicant was strong enough, or at least of a high enough concentration, to counter any caffeine the actual tea might have had.

"Any luck then?" asked John, as he stepped into the lab.

With his eyes glued to the row of petri dishes before him, Sherlock's face broke into a wry smile.

"Luck, no. Brains, yes." he answered.  
"Right, so…what is it? What's made Molly so sick?"  
"Have you heard of grievous bodily harm, John?" Sherlock asked, turning from the Petri dishes to look at John.  
"Um, what? You mean like a serious injury?"  
"No, John," Sherlock said, his eyes darkening, "I mean, Grievous. Bodily. Harm."  
"You've lost me." said John, grabbing himself a stool.  
"Grievous Bodily Harm, more _un_commonly known as GBH, Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid."  
"I know what that is. That's used in treating sleeping disorders, among other things."  
"Among other things, is correct. Grievous Bodily Harm is just one of its more charming monikers, along with 'date-rape' drug and other such lovely names."  
"And _how_ did Molly ingest this? How- Who would do something like that?!" asked John, livid.  
"One step at a time, John." said Sherlock, sitting back down on his own stool.

Having discovered the drug that Molly had overdosed on, Sherlock had immediately sent word out to his network of homeless people. He had asked them to search for anyone who was a GBH dealer and who had recently made a transaction, legally or illegally, anytime after Monday afternoon, the day he had had tea with Molly.

"I've sent word already. My search party is on it and we should be getting our first clues any moment now," said Sherlock, as he began scrolling furiously through his phone. Just then, his phone rang and Sherlock was pleased to see the number that flashed before him. It was the number of Molly's tea shop.

"Ah, Terence, hello. So glad you could call back. Do you have what I requested?"  
"Right, I've just sent you a scan of Monday's purchase history. Just the teas only, yeah?"  
"Yes, just the teas…No, wait…does your shop do gift baskets, bouquets…you know…"  
"Yes, not often though. We had only two orders on Monday. I can send those to you if you want…"  
"I want those very much, Terence. Thank you."

When Sherlock got off the phone, he had a satisfied grin on his face.

"Only two orders on Monday…" he repeated to himself.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Two orders…one of which," he rose suddenly from his seat, "will tell us who gave our pathologist her precious tea basket."

-

New information continued to pour in from all of Sherlock's sources and he scanned through all of it greedily. Now that he had confirmed the drug at the lab, he decided to see if Molly was awake. There were so many things he needed to ask, to confirm. When he walked into the ward, Sherlock was about to excitedly announce the results of the lab analysis when he saw that her eyes were shut and she was still fast asleep.

In between the beeps of the machines that watched her, Sherlock could hear her gentle breathing as she slept. The fluids she was getting had restored some colour to her face and she certainly looked a lot more comfortable. Sherlock pulled up one of the chairs and sat down right beside her.

"How could you have continued with the tea?" he asked her quietly. "Wouldn't you have felt suspicious from the first one?"

As he watched her unmoving figure, Sherlock had an unexpected memory return to him. He recalled the night he had cut her hand and run off into a cab with her. And he was struck, again, by how calm he had felt beside her, after all the strain that Evelyn had presented. His eyes now travelled from her pale eyelids, to the tip of her nose, to the slightly parted mouth, finally resting on her smooth cheekbone. His eyes had led him there because his memory had. There was no mistaking how _good_ it felt when her hand had touched his own face, that one brush of skin against his cheekbones. How did something so soft, manage to completely overthrow his aversion to unnecessary human contact?

_Well, you are indispensable_. _So, perhaps yours is necessary_, he rationalised in his head.

"Who's done this to you, Molly?" Sherlock asked, his jaw tight from anger. In spite of his anger, he found his hand automatically reaching for her cheekbone, only to hover above it, just as hers had.

Before he could decide whether to touch her or not, Sherlock's mind picked up a strange new sound that oscillated between the beeps and Molly's breathing. It sounded like a clicking, no, tapping noise. It was faint, distant at first, but then it grew clearer, sharper.

By the time Sherlock deduced what the sound was, the door had swung open and for the first time, Sherlock wished he had deduced wrongly. Standing at the door in her high heels and with eyes that glowered, was Evelyn Lancaster.


End file.
